


error- error- error-

by trash_mammall



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Happy Ending, Near Death, its a shit show in here, its kind of a disaster bc i feel like going through that would b a disaster too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-28 01:56:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15038168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trash_mammall/pseuds/trash_mammall
Summary: Connor's attempt at figuring out who the deviant in the broadcast room was went horribly wrong.In other words: another possibility to the Stratford Tower interrogation.





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**Author's Note:**

> honestly? not entirely sure how this'll read, but maybe it fits in the context of the scene. i feel like getting what is essentially Your Heart ripped out would cause you to flip the fuck out.

Connor wasn’t sure how many times he had died.

He remembered moments before - hair whipping by him, or staring down the barrel of a gun - but he couldn’t remember the act of dying, or how many times he had done it. He had never really cared about the amount of RK800s that were destroyed, as long as he was finished with his mission he wasn’t concerned, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to keep tally marks.

It was time wasted to be finicking over the nuances of his deaths, and he had more important things to worry about.

_ Something in the back of his mind reminded him of the number 37. _

Connor wasn’t entirely sure what dying felt like, either. That had been lost just as easily as the number, and had never seemed like something he needed to keep in mind. It was always as simple as a jolt in his consciousness, a pause, a blackout. Nothing to lose time over, nothing to get distracted over. Besides, androids didn’t feel anything anyway, so why ask a question that was impossible to answer?

_ Something in the back of his mind told him he didn’t like dying – told him it was dark, and absolute, and painfully silent. _

Connor went back to investigating.

* * *

 

Connor was determined to find the employee who had helped the deviants into the broadcast room. This was about more than simply catching all deviants, it was about loyalty to one’s company - loyalty to the safety of the network.

He hadn’t expected his methods of finding the deviant to backfire so abruptly, and in such a drastic manner. He hadn’t predicted an immediate attack, so he wasn’t able to adjust. The errors and shifting of hues filled his vision, the white noise and alarms filled his audio receptors, and he couldn’t seem to focus. By the time he was able to pull the knife out of his palm, he knew too much time had passed.

_ He registered, belatedly, that the feeling of pulling the blade out of the centre of his hand was wildly uncomfortable. It was foreign, steel brushing against severed sensory receptors that buzzed and sparked with the action. _

By the time Connor was on the floor, he realized how dangerous his panicking was. He couldn’t see past the red, blaring countdown, and he was unable to process anything properly. He forced himself to call out, pushing through the malfunctions in his communication system, but he wasn’t certain as to whom. He heard a murmur of his voice, and he thought the name felt familiar, felt safe, on his tongue.

But he couldn’t reach the bicomponent, he couldn’t fucking reach it. The alarms were blaring in his head and his optical input receptors were flashing and he couldn’t reach it and–

And he realized he was terrified.

He was so fucking scared.

His voice was strangled, rasping through malfunctioning circuits, calling out to Hank. It was hardly loud enough, it would be a fucking miracle if he survived this, and the realization of his almost certain death made his body run cold. His torso was drenched with blue and he could feel it, every ounce that dripped out of his stomach, and he thought for a moment that perhaps the world blurring wasn’t just because of the glitches in his body’s systems.

An android crying. Funny.

Connor thought that perhaps he wasn’t feeling pain, nothing physically hurt after all, but this must be pretty damn close. Everything was too much, everything was  _ wrong. _ His fingers were fumbling, shaking, and even if he could fully reach the damn regulator he didn’t think he would be able to put it back in.

He saw someone come in, far too nonchalant, and just from the way the person walked Connor could tell it was Hank. He couldn’t hear what the man said as he dropped to his knees, or maybe Connor did hear it but he wasn’t able to pinpoint a real meaning, or a real sentence. Or maybe no one was talking. Was  _ he _ talking?

He felt the word “deviant” come out of his mouth and he tried to shake his head, tried to clear that word from his vocals. That wasn’t what he wanted to say. What did he want to say?

Everything hurt, nothing was following his demands, he couldn’t find the bicomponent where the  _ fuck  _ was the bicomponent? He didn’t want this to be happening, this shouldn’t be happening, what the fuck was he doing? He was to fucking die, right? He was going to be deactivated, or destroyed, or decommissioned, or his memory was going to get wiped, or something  _ worse.  _ What the  _ fuck _ was going to happen to him?

He thought he felt Hank’s hand on his head, and Connor tried to point towards the small piece of complex metal and wires to their left. He tried to say something, warn Hank, order him to put it back, anything.

Was he saying anything?

Connor thought he might still be crying.

Why could androids cry? Seemed rather useless, didn’t it? Seemed rather unnecessary for an android of his function to be able to cry, didn’t it?

Was Hank still there?

Was time moving?

There was a mission he was supposed to be accomplishing, wasn’t there? There was a mission- a mission-  _ a mission- _

Connor felt something get shoved into his abdomen, and suddenly everything was far too quiet. The alarms were gone, the various warnings had disappeared from his vision, and everything was far too physical, far too concrete.

Connor could still feel arms around him and a hand on his forehead.

He heard Hank murmuring something, soft and ragged. It almost sounded relieved, though Connor couldn’t be sure, and he realized everything felt slow.

It was as if the world was moving through molasses, sticky and pulling him down, and he realized there was a single warning telling him he was low on Thirium.

Dangerously low.

But his voice was working again, and he was beginning to hear properly, and he fully registered Hank’s presence.

He registered the streak of blue staining the counter and tiles, leading to his body.

He registered the damage done to his shirt, and some irrational part of him sighed in disappointment.

_ He didn’t want to buy a new shirt - he had never done that before. _

_ Seemed rather useless. _

Connor tried to say something. Something about Thirium, or blue blood, or- or-  _ or- _

Hank hushed him, and he thought perhaps he had said too much in too little spacing.

And then Connor felt tired, a useless feeling, as androids didn’t really sleep, but he was warm. Hank’s lap was comfortable, and the hand on his forehead was cool, and the tiles were uncomfortable but everything was slow.

Everything was molasses.

And he thought he heard Hank tell him to get some rest, tell him to take it easy while they got some help, and everything was molasses.

And before Connor drifted off, he irrationally wondered what molasses tasted like.

* * *

Connor woke up on a lumpy couch with a far too large dog in his lap. It took him a moment, perhaps one a little too long, to realize he was in Lieutenant Anderson’s home, and that realization caused him to pause.

He couldn’t see why he would he here, of all places, after an investigation.

He heard the Lieutenant behind him, the squeaking of an old chair and the rustling of jeans reaching Connor before the man kneeled in front of him.

He looked tired, hair knotted and bags under his eyes, and Connor had to wonder if the Lieutenant had been waiting for him to wake up.

It took a minute of Lieutenant Anderson pestering Connor to make sure he was alright, Thirium levels back up and cognisance of where he was, before he asked real questions.

Questions Connor wasn’t sure how to respond to.

“What fuck happened back there?” Was the first question.

Connor easily retold his mission to interrogate, and how it went wrong. His voice was cold, analytical, and factual. He wasn’t sure he liked it.

“Are you okay?” Was the second question.

Connor wasn’t sure what that question was looking for, so he simply fed the Lieutenant the information from his diagnostic scan: all systems opportating to their highest capacity.

“No- how are you _ feeling? _ That must’ve been scary, yeah?” Was the third question.

Connor wasn’t sure what that was looking for, either, so he paused. He briefly remembered what it felt like to be crawling on the ground, calling out and shaking, and the couch cushion flashed red.

He replied with  _ I don’t know. _

The Lieutenant seemed to nod at that, something strange in the way he was taking in that information.

There were no more questions after that, and something in Connor’s mind reminded him of molasses.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed this little look into how this could've gone!
> 
> check out my other fic in this fandom if you'd like, n talk to me on tumblr if you want to, too! (trash-mammall)


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